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Many people on the Gold Coast had asked Claire and John why they had left South Africa. The real reason was that they had gotten sick and tired of going to funerals. Hardly anyone they knew had died of natural causes.

“Maybe that was why South Africans smoked like chimneys and drank like Russians,” thought Claire. “If you’re not going to live long enough to die of Cancer or Cirrhosis then you may as well do what you want to do today; you may not be here tomorrow!”

Her thoughts drifted back to the events of the fortnight that had influenced them in making their decision to leave.

The phone’s incessant ringing had eventually woken Claire up on Monday morning. She had at first incorporated its monotonous bell into her dream. She had jumped out of bed, surprised that the caller hadn’t hung up. It was John.

“Hi honey. Are you sitting down?” he had inquired.

“No, I’m speaking to you.”

“Well, you had better sit down. I’ve got some really bad news.” From the tone of his voice, Claire realized that something had gone dreadfully wrong.

“You know Alex?” John had asked unnecessarily.

Of course she did. Alex was one of her regular client’s son. A great big strapping youngster in his early twenties with a heart of gold, Alex was a gentle giant, notorious for stopping fights at nightclubs as opposed to starting them. He had a wonderful sense of humour and an even-keeled temperament, never losing his temper even when provoked.

Not waiting for her reply, John had continued.

“On his way home after dropping his girlfriend off last night, he was carjacked. His car was pushed off the road. The police reckon he tried to pull off and get away, but was shot. His folks found him in his car. The carjackers obviously weren’t able to lift him out.”

Claire couldn’t come to grips with the fact that someone who had abhorred violence so much had died in such a violent manner.

On Wednesday morning, Claire had made her way downstairs to make herself a coffee when she had noticed that John had left the documents he had been working on the previous night at home. Knowing that he required them urgently for a meeting later in the day, she had phoned to let him know that she would take them to his work.

John worked in a commercial/industrial area south of Johannesburg that was notoriously bad for robberies and carjackings, so Claire confirmed that the area was quiet before leaving home. She had arrived safely, made her way through two sets of security gates, and was sitting in John’s office sipping a cup of tea, while he completed his telephone conversation, when the sound of gunshots had been heard from the car park below.

John had spontaneously jumped up and run from the office, unholstering his Ruger 357 as he had progressed down the stairs. Claire had found herself sitting in a heap on the floor. She had crawled towards the window, keeping her head below the windowsill. More shots had been fired, but by a different caliber gun.

Claire had determined that the butcher who owned a shop on the ground floor, and another fellow whom she didn’t recognize, were firing at a car that was speeding out of the car park.

The driver had appeared to be hit, as the car progressed rather drunkenly across the road. It had mounted the pavement, hit a pedestrian and then collided with a removal truck, which halted its progress entirely.

Two men had jumped out of the car and were running into a vacant lot, making their getaway. The third occupant wasn’t moving at all. More sounds of gunfire could be heard as various factory owners opened fire on the two fugitives.

Claire had watched as John jumped into his car, driving off in pursuit of the would-be carjackers. She had waited over half an hour, which had felt like a lifetime, for his return.

John had explained the series of events. The fellow who Claire hadn’t been able to identify had parked and locked his car, entering the takeaway shop to order some lunch. He had been followed into the premises by the three carjackers who demanded at gunpoint that he hand over his car keys. This he had smartly done.

When the carjackers had been unable to start the motor vehicle as it had a hidden immobilizer, they had gone back into the shop, and, once again at gunpoint, had insisted that he start it for them. This he had done very smartly as well.

The butcher who had witnessed the events had rushed out of his shop as the felons started to pull away, shooting at the retreating vehicle. The car owner had then pulled out his own firearm, which the carjackers had omitted to frisk him for, and commenced shooting as well. The two carjackers who had escaped on foot had disappeared, presumably being picked up by friends as they neared the Pola Park squatter camp. The remaining one, still slumped in the car, had died of his gunshot wounds. The pedestrian who had been run over was bruised, battered, and very bad-tempered. He hadn’t got to purchase his lunch; lunch hour was over, and his obscenities directed at the deceased carjacker were being ignored!

The bloodied motor vehicle, which now resembled a cross between a concertina and a colander, was still hugging the wheel of the truck that it had collided with. The driver still had a car, for what it wasn’t worth!

Later on in the day, John had phoned to confirm that Claire had arrived home safely and had been able to rearrange her ruffled feathers. He had been most amused by what else had transpired in the shooting spree.

Apparently, when the butcher and driver had started shooting, a stray bullet had gone through the window of the office directly behind the carjacked vehicle. The owner of the business, Dave, had been sitting discussing an order with a visiting sales representative, who disappeared under the table after the bullet had whizzed passed, approximately an inch from the end of his nose! Dave had continued discussing business as usual, but the representative had strongly declined to take the order after the shooting incident, as he was also responsible for delivery of orders taken, and no longer wished to do business in that area.

“Can’t exactly blame him,” Claire had quipped.

“What’s the likelihood of him being nearly shot in the same place again?” John asked, “Dave chased him out of the office after that, telling him he’s a wimp, didn’t deserve the order and had better not set foot in his office again!”

“The rep must have been relieved,” she said.

Lightning had been known to strike more than once in the same place. Claire wouldn’t have liked to take bets on the pre-mentioned likelihood! Amazing how blaze John, Dave and the people who worked in the area had become. She still had a serious case of the shakes! Claire had spent most of that afternoon trying to come to grips with what she had seen. It had been like a time warp back to the Wild West. She couldn’t still her fear; John worked in that area daily. She had become accustomed to the sound of gunshots, which were a nightly and sometimes daily occurrence in the suburb where they resided. Somehow seeing everybody shooting in broad daylight, knowing that the perpetrators had been armed, and especially knowing how John would respond, frightened her more than ever before.

Living in a violent society had conditioned everybody like Pavlov’s dog, she surmised. When the violence had first started in Johannesburg, one would hear of an incident but not know the victim involved. As the violence had escalated, the stories would pertain to acquaintances that had fallen prey to robbers. One would be shocked, but somehow more prepared for it. By the time friends were being bumped off, one was so numbed by the violence that they were able to accept it as being the norm.

“That sure would fall into the category of conditioning,” Claire thought bitterly.